Chapter 7

 

The sun was warm as the morning progressed. It had been a cold spring with periods of warm weather several days at a time. Today promised to be one of the warmer days. People were gathering at the entrance of the museum, only to see a hand-lettered sign informing them that the museum was temporarily closed. Even though the loading dock was in the back of the museum and out of sight, a crowd was gathering behind the crime tape that cordoned off the area.

The police were busy taking measurements and photos of the crime scene. Tim, Derek and I were in the security office watching the police activity on the security cameras. Police detective Jacob Wright was taking down our statements.

“You said, Dr. Ashworth, that the deceased looks familiar to you?”

“No, I said that there was something about her that looked familiar. She was face down so I couldn’t see her face. It’s just that something about her is bothering me,” I answered.

“Well, we should get an ID on her soon. Once we get the evidence from the area we can go through her purse and check for identification.”

“There is something you should know,” began Tim, “off the record.” Tim went on to tell Detective Wright why we were working there.

The medical examiner and his staff had arrived and they were preparing to remove the body. Detective Wright left to join the others. William Baker, the museum director had arrived on the scene looking extremely upset and was being brought up to date on the events by the police team on the scene. We watched Detective Wright gesture in our direction and we knew Baker would be joining us soon.

“This is a nightmare!” exclaimed Bill Baker as he entered the room followed by Detective Wright. “There’s something I’ve got to show you.” Bill Baker exited the room. We all looked at each other puzzled.

“Take a look at this!” Bill Baker had a photograph in his hand and he passed it to Wright. We moved around and looked over his shoulder.

“Holy shit!” said Tim. The photograph Bill Baker was holding was of a painting. The subject of the painting was an older woman dressed up as a majorette.

“It’s the same uniform!” I observed unnecessarily.

“This,” said Baker with tears in his eyes and shaking the photo at us, “is the painting that was stolen from the museum!”

Before any of us could react, another detective entered the room and passed a note to Detective Wright.

“We have a tentative ID on the victim,” he announced. “Her name is Kelley Kennedy.”

The room seemed to grow dim and gravity seemed to have deserted me as I lowered myself to a chair.

“Something the matter?” asked Detective Wright.

I opened my month to speak, but nothing came out. “Relax and breathe,” said Tim as he placed his hands on my shoulders and began to rub them.

“What’s going on?” asked Wright.

“Kelley Kennedy is Jesse’s ex-wife!” replied Tim.

 

…………………..

 

It was close to eighty degrees and no breeze anywhere. It was the warmest day of the spring so far and everyone was outside enjoying the weather. I was surprised at how fast people had shed their winter clothes and donned shorts and flip-flops. The police station was stuffy, but at least I was in an office and not in an interrogation room.

“When was the last time you saw Kelley Kennedy?” asked detective Wright.

“I haven’t seen her in twenty-five years. We were divorced and went our separate ways. I didn’t even know she was in Maine.”

“You just took an assignment at the Turner Museum. She worked in the office as a grant writer. You didn’t know she was here?”

“No, I didn’t. I’ve only worked security twice and both times the offices were closed.”

“And what was your relationship with her like?”

“As I said,” I was growing tired of this. “I hadn’t seen or heard from her in twenty-five or twenty-six years. We left on good terms; but that was all so long ago.”

“And yet,” continued Detective Wright, “you recognized the body after twenty-five years.”

“I did not,” I insisted, “recognize her. I said there was something familiar about her.”

“So you did,” agreed Wright. “And where were you last night around nine o’clock?”

“I was at home in Bath.”

“And did anyone see you there?”

“Of course! Tim Mallory was with me.” I said. “All night!” I added just to make it clear.

“Okay, Dr. Ashworth. Thanks for answering our questions. You’re free to go.” I expected him to tell me not to leave town, but he didn’t.

Tim was waiting for me. He had been with another detective answering questions.

“Am I a suspect?” I asked Tim.

“No. You have an alibi and no known motive. But they have to rule you out. They told me she was most likely killed between nine and ten last night and you were far away.”

 

………………….

 

“Why was she dressed up as a majorette?” asked my mother. Both parents were sitting in my living room looking at me for answers.

“I have no idea; we’ve been divorced for years.”

“She was a strange one,” added my father. “I always wondered what you were thinking.” That’s the great thing about parents. No matter how much you’ve grown up, to them you will always be the awkward, clueless teenager who needs constant reminders about how clueless you are.

“I’ve always said she was going to end up badly,” said my mother. My mother had never said any such thing. Maybe her hair dye was toxic and that was affecting her memory.

My parents were due to fly back to Florida tomorrow. I knew Tim would be relieved to see them go. As for me, I couldn’t wait for them to hit the friendly skies!

“We could always stay an extra week if you need us,” offered my father. I saw the panic in Tim’s eyes.

“Thanks,” I said. “But I have Tim and Monica to take care of me.” I didn’t add that at my age I was completely able to take care of myself.

“Let’s go out for dinner tonight,” said Tim to change the subject before my parents could change their minds about leaving. It was a perfect plan. We could drop them off at their hotel after dinner and have some alone time.

“Sure thing,” said my father. “But it’s my treat. No sense arguing.”

I didn’t point out that no one was going to argue about the bill.

“Let’s pick up Monica and Jason on the way,” suggested my mother. “She’s family.”

“So are Tim and Jason,” I said.

“Oh, of course,” she replied, but I think she knew I caught her in one of her word games.

“I’ll give them a call,” said Tim as he picked up the phone and suppressed a grin.

 

Monica and I were up early and drove my parents to the airport in Portland. It was a clear day, and I was sure their flight would be a smooth one. Florida was just over a three hour flight so they would be home in plenty of time for their afternoon naps.

“Thanks for helping out with them,” I said to Monica as we waved back at them as they stepped through security.

“They are my aunt and uncle after all, and family is family,” she said as she rolled her eyes.

“Yes, they are, aren’t they?” I replied.

“Let’s go shopping!”

“Okay,” I agreed. “Let’s go to the old port.”

It only took a few minutes to drive from the airport to the old port section of the Portland. It took another ten minutes to find a parking spot in town. I finally gave up and parked in a parking garage. We walked down the street towards the waterfront and found a coffee house, ordered coffee, and sat at a table near the window.

“So, how are you doing?” asked Monica. “It must have been quite a shock.”

“That’s the strange thing. We were married for five years. I ought to feel something, but it was so long ago it seems like something I saw in a movie once. I have visual images, but not any real memories.”

“I think it’s different when you have kids. I’ll always be attached to Jerry Twist because of my two boys, even though Jerry is a complete asshole. You had no kids and no communications for twenty-six years. Whoever she had become, it had nothing to do with you.”

I looked around the coffee house and out toward the street. Everything seemed normal to me. “My sixth sense seems to have left me,” I said. Monica and I had been brought up in a family that embraced Spiritualism. Talking to the dead and having active intuitions had been a regular part of our lives. Neither of us really believed in it anymore; but from time to time we had feelings and experiences we couldn’t ignore.

“I know what you mean,” replied Monica. “I think when the dust settles after a few days, we might get some insight. Do you know what I think?”

“Not really.”

“I think that the sixth sense is really the subconscious taking bits of information and putting it together, and then giving our conscious mind a swift kick start. Most people have been taught to ignore it. We were taught to pay attention and listen.”

“That makes perfect sense,” I said, somewhat relieved. “Maybe in a day or two, when we get more information, the sixth sense will kick in again.”

“Or maybe your spirit guides are just taking a break,” said Monica with a laugh.

“Finish your coffee,” I said. “We’ve got shopping to do!”